Friday, March 27, 2009

In THE HANDBOOK OF POETIC LANGUAGE, Stan Apps discusses poetry as a format of writing that becomes "unsuccessful language" and "meaning is a commodity." In a downturn, money -- and not just the dollar -- loses all value in any communicative/exchangeable value it may have. In a downturn, money becomes poetic. What's interesting about this downturn -- compared with other, non-globalized whimpy whimpy downturns -- is that it won't be just the dollar, but all currencies. We won't only be dealing with a devaluation of one country's currency (Oh, how cute! Old fashioned US Dollars!) but of them all. Currency, as a idea backed by a standard (federal banks, money presses, etc) becomes poetic, or unsuccessful.

I think poems should rhymeI think poems should rhymeThis way, you can memorize The word I've chosen hereAnd what nasty idea came into my headHere and here, also thereWhere the line ends, that's a rhymeNot just end rhyme but bizarro rhymeBreaking when you least expectThere to be a fractureInterrupting the line there's rhymeI believe you should like rhymeIf you don't die

Then you should like rhyme because It's memorable and you can remember it wellIt's a saving fact that poems haveA poem about feelings and absurd rhyming skillsEngineered first to make you laughThen making you falling In love with Ruth Lilly's mustache What do you rhyme with that? cereal tits?

I ate so much bread I became infected with rhymeSomeone put Be Delicious perfume on their vaginaAnd that become part of a rhyme too. Some writers shout their rhymes because they need hearingOthers listen and observe the natural order of the universeWhich has rhyming programmed in it naturally.

For me, the best rhyme is a middle rhyme with notToo much power taken from delivery. If you have to incite your poetry crowdThere are too many people at your readingAnd this means you need less rhyme.

I know other writers who collect odd wordsAnd attempt to rhyme these words with old fashioned Words, and they no longer exist! It's fantasy!Words cannot rhyme with nothing that doesn't exist!

What doesn't rhyme is poetry and political Messages. Those don't rhyme! Poetry should never be political. it's justTalk set to music or some reader's ideaOf what a rhyme should sound likeNot anyone having the slightest inklingTo know what these words sounds make.So there are many other uses for your poemLike not being a poem but instead a speechThat you give that confuses peopleBecause Beowulf was real and you’re not.

And that's the rhyming theoryExpressed easily for you fans of rhymeRemember that rhyme is simple and you canWarm up with practice and repetition. begin smallTry writing first a word and then a word that is similar. That can be a rhyme. A rhyme can fit into a line. You don't have to be exact.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

On my end, somewhat speculatively -- probably due to the cold medication -- I've been thinking a lot about collapsitarianism lately, and about the great "what if," if all this fails...if we're thrown into some strange proto-agrarian dystopia (dystopian in that the vast majority do not know how to produce), what next? The sequence is alarming, this kind of change isn't always good. It seems to me that the following is true: Stimulus is the preservation of government and business by both government and business. If these both fail to self-preserve, then you'll have your libertarianism, and a whole lot more.

But -- and here's the trickiness of it -- if both fail, and if money and all fiats fail, then this still doesn't sync with what most are talking about in these collapsitarian circles, namely, that we're screwed, that progress is down the shitter. In a sense, it's a tap of the "restart" button. We'll be faced with a massive re-thinking of value and other tenets we've taken for granted because money has allowed us to take them for granted. Debt and lending have thrown ideas of value and worth into a tailspin. What matters now is what you paid. What you'll pay, who'll pay you and how much. This is a great abstraction and it seems as though its time is up. So regardless of civil liberties guaranteed by a government nullified by empty coffers and emptier promises, as well as voided by collapse as a legislator of ANYTHING moralistic or economic or otherwise, rather what we'll be asking is what to do when money no longer fulfills a barter/commerce agreement.What do you have that will guarantee you a good, hot meal.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

is a book by Sam Pink, which sounds like a pseudonym, but is actually what results when James Tate, David Markson and Tyler Durden have a baby together.

What I really want to say, though, is that this book is one of those books that gets you thinking, "Shit, I'm not writing enough. I need to PUSH myself." And also, "I'm a wuss for thinking this. I should just write." And also, "I should collage violent acts into poems." Then you realize, "Oh, Pink aleady did that. Hilarious."

Warning: Pink's book contains no violence...

...and pushes the envelope so far (& successfully, I should add) that I've turned again to other work I've written that I've been "stuck" on.

I need to risk more, I think. Once I have a looksee over some "stuck" pieces, I'll let you know someday what exactly I mean by "risking more" and just what type of "risk" I'm talking about.

Now I'm going to read into this conceptually, and while I'm unsure that Pink would want this, if he doesn't like it he can go floss with my G-string on fire...

One thing that sticks out in my mind is Spicer's idea of serial work, and how Pink taps into this vein, writing what could easily have been two books (168 pages) that draws heavily on one theme. But where other attempts of others writers to write "twee" into socially unacceptable themes haven't worked, Pinks tract on violence works very well indeed. I'm not sure why, but I think it has to do with the book's final poem about "beating a dead horse." Pink beats well, and to sustain this kind of hilarity for 168 pages without seeming too cute or clever is an accomplishment.

What if there were an oveninside of another ovenso that when you turned one onyou thought: hey, this oven is burningand you could smell what an oven is cookingwhich would be oveninside of another ovenand you would get the wrong ideawhich says that men can't cookwhen the oven is so distinctly maleit hurts.You then decide to sell the oven and eat outmore often, inviting guests overwhen you're goneso they starve with no oven. only last minute decidingto call the delivery number with the guyshowing up too late (flat tire or chain fell off,I don't know) and not saving any guest

on the way home, you're really tiredand you pull a hamstring slowing your return to an otherwise empty house full of dead guestsnot taking up too much room because they're skinnyfrom death. The oven is gone For 20 bucks they picked it upDon't stop mereally being two ovensand delivered it to where the work of two ovens is required to not feed guestsbut you don't have enough room in your placetho now you do with skinnier guestswhich is what you always wanted from friendsa gift that fits inside an ovenwhere men cook.

You are taking the busWhich is what carries you when you pay To places you cannot get walkingAnd if you choose to refusePayment, the blue man group will sacrifice you

My heart runs like a broken tire after you:Soon it will be set aflame and we know how that smells

Actually I look like my dadBefore a thousand hornets Moved into my mouth with their house, stung my tasteAnd your mother gave a piece to a chain-smoker bird

I gave peace to that chain smokerWith the Iron Maiden rock genocide tour honestyFor father hornetIn hiding on the bus from the secret police of busesIn hiding we learn who our germs are. In hiding in the gearshift you called femaleOmigod, do you bite?

Monday, March 16, 2009

Aruba is a small island with beautiful faces.There faces are made of expressions.Growing angry in Aruba creates a new land.Link hands to create a new government!Our expressions have caused land to formGreat white arching bodyAnd opening mouth shark fartsTee time is near indigestionEating of organic fleshes increases golf gameIncreases stride increases your stretching abilityTo encase a shark in a small pool for observationOf the type of early warning shark feed Aruba facesNew forms of beautiful expressionless adventures in an aquarium

Can you see your face recharged and reflectedIn the joy brought during the whale watchWe spotted the rare hump with a mirrorThe promising mandible held on so firmlyAs if terrified by the joy of ArubaA whale could seeLong far off, part of the admission. Distance is his strengthForces out wide smiling reasons to come to our island.

In Spanish, to say someone is the fifth wheel, they're called the "violinist." This necessary figure -- she who provides the music by which "the two" dine, flirt, romanticize -- renders this "leftover" person's awkwardness useful in much more tactful terms than in English, where a third wheel turns the configuration into a trike.

Friday, March 06, 2009

Rock your bodyMake it the hardest it’s ever beenRight before you achieve maximumHardness, force it into shape.Let it all out, go and enjoy your hard rockBody pressing against all sides.

A body so hard with bursts Energy will request your body visit energy seminarsOf hard bursting bodies yours is the most rockingRocking your body to avoid burstingIs the way to achieve maximum solid

Hardness, let go to enjoy your hard rockBody pressing against all sidesYou have now achieved a hardness we only dream ofRocking your body along to identify with The Rosy Crucifixion.Many onlookers will pay attribution.A body that covets attentionCan be yours.

Others might have tried, some with successBut a rock hard gruesome body is the lowestCommon denominator under the stress of heavinessAs long as you force yourself absolutelyInto a healthy routineYou’ll be bothered until you achieve the bodyThe source of all your dreamsAbout the body you will useTo reply with what’s yours

You can’t imagine resultsBefore you subject yourself to crueltyThere’s a new body thereDown by the creek constantly exercising

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

I can’t escape my eyesDarkness has seemed to overcome my lookingEverything in this room is foggy.

I am in a Steven Wonder song.I am in a discoEach person above my bed moves chairsI feel I’m stuck in songs with a bedBecause there’s no real reason for me to be sickExcept something crawled wrong into my eyes.

I cannot delay inside my eyesWhose own insides ask for delaySo many objects my eye’s insides seeFAST! I have a headache very bigRelying on enormous to fulfill that adjectiveMy headache is the most sincere expressionOf the feeling stuck in my eyes.

I feel like household industrial strength cleanersBefore it was made illegalI had hope Wednesday would come soonerBecause my eyes escape that day.